


Third Chance

by EvilDime



Series: (Un)necessary fix-its [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Dark, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Guilt, Hopeful Ending, Loneliness, M/M, Omega Verse, POV Steve, Past Sexual Abuse, Past Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-21 15:00:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9553727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvilDime/pseuds/EvilDime
Summary: When the Winter Soldier feels the urge to free Captain America from SHIELD custody, you know something somewhere has gone spectacularly wrong. And when Captain America unwittingly refuses the rescue... well.This is a sequel to Jaune_Chat's "Addiction and Recovery". It doesn't really fix anything - you can't fix somethingthisbroken. But. It does provide a more hopeful ending for Steve. Eventually.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Recovery](https://archiveofourown.org/works/824766) by [Jaune_Chat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaune_Chat/pseuds/Jaune_Chat). 



> If I'm traumatized by the summary, I probably shouldn't read the fic. I'll learn that some day. Until then, I'll keep writing sequels to fantastic, brilliantly evil fanfics. -.-
> 
> CAUTION: I didn't feel entitled to give Steve a nicer ending until I'd dragged him a bit further down still. So I've taken some liberty concerning his mask, amongst other things. Just be aware going in that this one isn't really a happy fic, either.

The Winter Soldier paused. His mission tonight was to kill the designated target, Nicolas J. Fury. He was headed up to ground level with the STRIKE team when he caught a scent that...

What was that scent?

He turned, disregarding the surprised exclamations of the team, and continued on further upstairs instead of out. Soon, he was taking the steps three at a time, chasing the scent that grew stronger the closer he got to it.

_Despair. Loneliness. Horror. Self-loathing._

_Pain._

But also: _Home._

He lost the STRIKE team after a couple of levels when he switched to another staircase. They could not smell what he did, their senses less acute than the Soldier's, and would take precious long minutes to find him again.

He was close to the source now, facing a bland white door, unguarded, but locked. The Winter Soldier dug his fingers into the lock, disabling it by brute force, and pushed the door open. He entered the room and pulled the door shut behind him.  It was dark; he took off his goggles rather than switch on the light.

Then he stopped, suddenly hesitant.

The Winter Soldier was alone, had always been alone. He knew that. So why did the tall man on the bed smell like pack?

The man turned his head; their eyes met. The man's nostrils flared, his eyes widened, the pupils growing into deep, dark pools, until there was barely any blue left along the rim. Another wave of _pain, horror, longing, shame shame SHAME_ met the Soldier's nostrils.

A muffled, distorted sound emerged from behind the strange mask the man was wearing. The Solider touched a hand to his own muzzle in sympathy.

He did not know this man and yet he did. Right hand on his primary gun, left hand held loosely at his side, ready to strike at the slightest provocation, he cautiously approached. When the man didn't move from his supine position, the Soldier realized that despite the man's strength rivalling his own - and how did he know this? - he could not break his shackles. They must be of Winter Soldier strength.

He leant down to scent the man, drawing in his alpha pheromones with deep breaths and letting them sink in. There were memories attached to this scent, memories of pack and fight and love and warmth.

_Steve._

He jerked back, wide-eyed. The man on the bed moaned pitifully.

Turning on his heel, the Winter Soldier lunged from the med room and fled into the night.

* * *

Steve was standing on a rooftop in East New York, watching the Avengers fighting giant spiders two blocks over. He was on backup duty.

Again.

It had been twelve years since he raped Tony. He hated the word. Rape. Hated that it applied to him.

Doctor Erskine must be rolling in his grave because he died for nothing - his serum had been wasted on the wrong man. Not a hero, but just a dumb kid from Brooklyn with too great an ego and too little compassion. 

Since the Avengers served pack justice against him, Steve had had a lot of time to reconsider his choices. In fact, apart from the occasional battle, he had nothing but time.

He was under house arrest. He did not get to go outside, meet people, have hobbies, make new experiences. Live. All he did was sit in his room, stare at the wall, and try not to think of Tony.

At first, he had made attempts to go back to his old pass-times: Draw. Read. Cook. But every time he picked up a blank piece of paper, it ended up featuring Tony - naked, presenting himself, begging Steve to fuck him. Steve burned the paper. He had no right to this. Reading was flawed, as well. Ever since Natasha had mentioned the Little Prince to him, Steve was seeing the parallels between the stories he read and his own life. Sometimes, he found his own role portrayed by the hero; but too often, he recognized himself in the villain. He stopped reading. Cooking... cooking was not an option. The wires in his jaws allowed him to open his mouth far enough to sip protein shakes, but that was about it. And he had no one else to cook for.

Next, he tried to find new occupations. He learned ASL, just for something to do. But that took much too short a time due to his enhanced memory, nor did he have anyone to talk to anyway; much too soon, he found himself at loose ends again.

So he sat, and looked at the wall, and waited.

Sometimes, it rankled. He bristled at the injustice of _him_ being sidelined, denied his rightful place at the head of the pack. He had worked hard for this, dammit, didn't they see how much good he had done? He needed to be out there, doing good, showing the world how much he had to give. 

He needed to matter.

Many times, he got  _this_ close to just breaking through his door in righteous rage and going outside, to do something, anything.

Then he remembered Bucky's eyes.

It had been a dream, a nightmare. After Natasha had interrogated him, while the pain from his brutal surgery was still raw, he had lain awake all night, pain and self-doubt and horror keeping him awake. Or so he'd thought. But when he heard metal scrape against the lock, when the door slowly opened to reveal a dangerous killer with a black mask and goggles, he was sure this was a dream.

For the man smelled like Bucky.

After he took off the goggles, Bucky did not look happy to see him. He approached Steve cautiously, like someone afraid of spooking a dangerous animal. He did not hug Steve, did not unveil his face, and he did not say a word. He just looked at Steve, silently judging him.

And Steve realized that Bucky knew.

Bucky touched his hand to his own mask as though to say: I know why you are wearing that, and I approve. Then he bent down to give Steve a whiff of the scent of _pack_ and _home_ and _safety_ \- all the things Steve had lost in the war. All the things he could have had again with the Avengers, and lost to his own egotist impulse. 

Bucky had been a beta. And a damn fine fighter. Steve couldn't imagine Bucky  as an omega.  It would have been such a liability in the field, and also, it just wouldn't have been  _ Bucky. _ The mere idea was absurd, and  imagining anyone forcefully turning Bucky got  Steve's blood boiling.  Bucky had been perfect the way he was,  a strong, reliable fighter. They had been so close, always watching out for each other,  and he had  _ listened _ to Steve... 

Tony could have been all that and more.  But the moment Steve forced himself on Tony,  that stopped being a possibility.  In his self-righteous impatience,  Steve had destroyed everything that could have been between them, and a large part of who Tony  _ was. _

No wonder  this spectre of  Bucky wanted  nothing to do with him now, wouldn't even touch him for fear of being tainted by association. Steve whined in  horrified  shame.

As if he was reading Steve's thoughts, Bucky jerked back. Without another look, he rushed out the door, the echo of his steps retreating down the hall, the scent of _home_ leaving with him. 

Steve was not worth staying with. 

He was  nothing. 

It was this he remembered every time his restlessness grew beyond his control.  When Steve smelled Rhodes and Potts bedding  _his_ omega and wanted nothing more than to fight them for Tony; when he felt the Avengers piling on top of each other  in the common room  to watch a movie and his entire body was itching to  run  up there and join them, be surrounded by his pack; when one of the team got hurt on a mission and Steve knew he had to go back to his room, not to the medical floor, no matter how much his instincts screamed at him to stay and protect - then he thought of Bucky's eyes, widened in horror and betrayal at what his former alpha had become. 

And he calmed down, breathed through the pain and locked himself in his room. 

Day after day, he did nothing but wait for any sign from Tony, or at least for a call to Assemble. He was quietly angry that he was doomed to this hell of a life, this non-existence, when he had been made for so much more. 

Yet he had no-one but himself to blame. Raging at Natasha would get him nowhere, and it would also be petty and unjustified. She was the alpha of their pack by rights, and Steve had to submit. He was _not_ going to fight her. He'd done enough harm already.

Tony had a right to his revenge, and he'd let Steve know he enjoyed every minute of it. _Go to hell_ still rang in Steve's ears, even after more than a decade. The scent of Tony in heat filtered through the many floors separating them, and he could feel Tony finding release with his chosen mates. It burned him up inside. But that wasn't the end of it.

There were those text messages, too.

_You are a prisoner. Do you want out?_ the first one had read. Steve had frowned.  Tony. It had to be. Natasha would be more direct than that.  He did not know what Tony was getting at with this, but he was in no position to deny Tony any cruel joke he wanted to play. Maybe this wasn't even a joke but something to help Tony feel safe. Maybe he needed the reassurance that Steve would not break out and come after him. Steve's shoulders hunched at the thought. 

_I am where I need to be,_ he typed. Remembering Fury's words, he added:  _I can never undo what I did, but I offer what little I can to try and make amends._

Three days later, there was another message. _How long will that take you?_

Steve went to the tiny gym on his floor and punched down three bags before he answered. _My whole life, probably, and then some._

This time, the answer was immediate. _So the crime you committed is irredeemable?_

Steve didn't have the energy left to even feel wronged at Tony's little game. If this helped Tony get over some of his pain, who was Steve to deny him? _I raped my pack mate. I broke my entire pack's trust. I cannot possibly make up for that._ _It's like Natasha said: I had my second chance when I woke up from the ice, and I squandered that. I don't deserve a third chance._

There was silence on the other end. Steve imagined Tony had not expected him to own up to his crime. Steve was a little bit affronted. Tony should know better by now.

Bucky's eyes stared at him.

Right. Tony _had_ known better, had thought he knew Steve, and then Steve had turned around and broken that. How could Tony possibly ever trust his own judgement again when it came to Steve? He couldn't, Steve answered his own question. Because Steve had taught him he could not be trusted.

There were no more text messages after that.

Steve looked at his phone occasionally, but as the weeks turned into months and no new messages appeared, he eventually stopped looking. Tony had other things to do now. When they met on the battlefield, he no longer panicked or lashed out; he did not acknowledge Steve at all. The bond between them was fading. Part of Steve howled with helpless rage at seeing and feeling his omega turn to another alpha again and again, but the rational part of his brain was grateful.

The weakening of the bond made being away from Tony a little easier.

Tony, who had never once asked for his touch during a heat. Who would take nothing but his blood - until even that became unnecessary. Several years back, Bruce had managed to identify the relevant components for his shots, and Tony had succeeded in synthesizing them. It was a boon to omegas everywhere, or so Steve had heard. And so there was no reason for Steve to get close, no excuse whatsoever. He kept to himself.

Apart from Tony. Apart from everyone.

Steve longed for human touch. He had never been so alone in his entire life. He deserved it, he knew he did, but he wished... He just wanted...

Sighing, he focused back on the present.

Across the street, the battle was winding down. Humongous severed spider legs littered the crossroads, the Hulk was stomping around in the yellowish smears that were all that was left of his foe with a satisfied growl, and Tony was off somewhere making sure the mastermind behind this ridiculous attack got what was coming to him. Everyone else had already started on clean-up.

Everyone else, nowadays, were a fairly large number of people. Over the course of the last year, superheroes seemed to have cropped up everywhere someone turned over a stone. There was a super kid in Queens, another vigilante in Hell's Kitchen, even China Town had their own local legend nowadays. Superheroes came in all shapes, sizes, genders and races. Not that this was unexpected, considering the Avengers, but these guys took it to a whole new level.

In the end, all it meant for Steve was that he was obsolete.

Other people worked with the Avengers now, people who could communicate directly with Tony and not need JARVIS to interpret; people who were welcome to join the team for a beer or a shawarma after the fight. People who, little by little, were being adopted into the pack, while Steve found himself steadily pushed further aside. Natasha still let him help with strategy, kept one line open to him during every battle. But it felt more and more like a pittance. They didn't actually need him any more.

Steve had always dreamed of a world in which he could lay down his shield because Captain America was no longer needed. But this wasn't the world he had imagined. In his fantasies, there had been peace. And he, himself, had had a pack to enjoy it with.

But the world today held as many wars as it had when he was younger. There were just more superheroes fighting in them. Superheroes as a whole were still needed; but Captain America wasn't.

His phone beeped. He pulled it out while reflexively scanning the sky for Tony. Iron Man was nowhere in sight. Frowning, he looked at the display.

_You ready for that Third Chance now?_

Footsteps sounded on the roof behind him. Steve whirled around.

Against the deep purple Brooklyn sunset, the two men stood outlined. One was dressed in a sleek superhero costume and wearing a white mask. The other was dressed all in black, his silhouette distorted with the ends of knives and guns peaking out here and there; he wore a black mask.

_Hydra is still out there,_ the dark soldier signed.  _Been fighting them for a dozen years and still haven't managed to wipe them out. Two heads growing in every time I whack one off means a single fighter just can't get the job done. Wanna help me destroy them?_

_Pack,_ Steve signed. It was as much a question as it was an exclamation, his hands shaking and barely coherent. 

_Yes,_ the soldier signed back. 

Steve took a hesitant step forward. _I have..._ He started anew. _I am not the man I used to be. I'm not a good man._

The other man laughed, a strangled sort of chuckle emerging past his muzzle. _Neither am I._

_I am broken,_ Steve insisted.  _Dangerous._

_As am I,_ the other man once more replied.  _Don't worry. We can be broken together._ He hesitated, then added:  _Til the end of the line._

Steve's face crumpled as he fell into Bucky's arms.

**Author's Note:**

> So at first I had this happening 2 years after the end of Recovery, because I don't think it should take the Winter Soldier much longer than that to mostly wipe out Hydra by himself. But then I looked at it and decided that doesn't really give Steve much time at all to pay for what he did. I upped the year count to 27. With 27 years in solitary confinement, Steve would have been a virtual zombie for about as long as he'd been alive before. Unfortunately, it would also mean that some of the other Avengers might already be beyond fighting age and I didn't want that, either. So I settled for 12 years as a compromise.  
> This seems fair to me. Let me know if you agree. : )


End file.
